WE went to the country, where I committed many faults, allowing myself to be too much carried away by my interior attraction. I thought I could do so, because my husband was amusing himself in building. He was, nevertheless, dissatisfied with it, for I left him too long without going to see him where he was, because he was constantly speaking to the workmen. I used to place myself in a corner, where I worked. I could hardly do anything from the strength of the attraction, which made the work fall from my hands. I passed hours in this way, without being able either to open my eyes or know what was going on in me, which was so simple, so peaceful, so sweet, that I sometimes said to myself, “Is heaven more peaceful than I?” I told nobody my dispositions, for they had nothing by which they could be distinguished. I could not tell anything of them; all passed in the inmost of the soul, and the will enjoyed what I cannot express.
This disposition was almost continual in the early years, and gave me the greatest possible desire to suffer. I experienced that this disposition insensibly produced another in me, which was that my will was deadened each day, and imperceptibly lost itself in the sole will of God; and I knew by feeling that my interior disposition of simple repose in God, without performing particular acts, had the effect of taking away, little by little, my will, to make it pass into God. This, moreover, made the soul so supple and pliable, that she at once was led to all that God could wish of her, though it should be painful. She became every day more indifferent to time, place, and states, and tasted in a wonderful way that everything needful for her was given at each moment, so that from this time she could desire nothing but what she had. This disposition extinguished all desires, and I sometimes said to myself, “What dost thou wish? What dost thou fear?” And I was astonished to find I could not desire or fear anything. Every place was my proper place. Everywhere I found my centre, because everywhere I found God. The tendency which appeared to be most marked was for solitude and love of the cross; it was what my whole soul inclined herself to.
As it was with difficulty I ordinarily had any time for praying, in order not to disobey my husband, who was unwilling I should rise from bed before seven o’clock, I bethought me I had only to kneel upon my bed, which, because he was ill, was in his room, as I endeavoured to show him my attention in everything. I rose at four o’clock, and remained on my bed. He thought I slept, and did not perceive it; but this affected my health and did me harm, for as my eyes were heavy from the small-pox I had had only eight months before, and which had left a serious affection of the eyes, this want of sleep made me unable to pray without falling asleep, and I did not sleep a moment in quiet, as I was apprehensive of not waking up. After dinner I went to pray my half-hour, and, though I was in no way sleepy, I fell asleep at once. I disciplined myself with nettles to keep awake, without being able to succeed.
As we had not yet built the chapel, I could not go to Mass without the permission of my husband, for we were very distant from all kinds of churches, and as ordinarily he only allowed me on festivals and Sundays, I could not communicate but on those days, however desirous I might be for it, unless some priest came to a chapel, which was a quarter of a league from our house, and let us know of it. As the carriage could not be brought out from the courtyard without being heard, I could not elude him. I made an arrangement with the guardian of the Recolets, who was a very holy man. He pretended to go say Mass for somebody else, and sent a monk to inform me. It had to be in the early morning, that my husband might not know of it, and, although I had much trouble in walking, I went a quarter of a league on foot, because I dared not have the horses put to the carriage for fear of awaking my husband. O my God, what a desire did you not give me to receive you! and although my weariness was extreme, all that was nothing to me. You performed miracles, O my Lord, in order to further my desires; for besides that, ordinarily on the days I went to hear Mass, my husband woke later, and thus I returned before his waking, —how many times have I set out from the house in such threatening weather that the maid I took with me said that it would be out of the question for me to go on foot, I should be soaked with rain. I answered her, with my usual confidence, “God will assist us;” and did I not arrive, O my Lord, without being wetted? No sooner was I in the chapel than the water fell in torrents. The Mass was no sooner finished than the rain ceased entirely, and gave me time to return to the house, where, immediately upon my arrival, it recommenced with greater violence. What is surprising is that during many years, while I have thus acted, it has never happened that I was deceived in my confidence. This goodness you had for me, my God, gave me such a submission to your providence, that I could not trouble myself or be disquieted about anything whatsoever. When I was in the town, and did not find anyone who could see me, I was astonished at priests coming up to me and asking if I wished to communicate; that they would give me the communion. I was not so foolish as to refuse, O my Love, this present that you yourself made me; for I did not doubt it was you who inspired them with this charity. Before I had made my arrangements with the Recolets to come and say Mass in the chapel of which I have just spoken, you sometimes awaked me, O my God, by a start, with a strong instinct to get up and go to that chapel, that I should there find Masses. The maid I took with me said, “But, Madame, you are about, perhaps, to fatigue yourself to no purpose; there will probably be no Mass said,” for this chapel was not served regularly, and the only Masses were those that were caused to be said from time to time through the devotion of an individual. I went full of faith, in spite of what the maid did to dissuade me; on arriving, I found the priest dressing himself to ascend to the altar.
If I could tell in detail the providences you had for me, which were continual, and threw me into astonishment, there would be material to fill volumes. You made me find providences quite ready for writing to Mother Granger when I was most pressed with troubles, and I felt strong instincts to go out sometimes to the gate, where I found a messenger from her, who brought me a letter that could not otherwise have reached my hands. What I tell is nothing in comparison of what there were. These sorts of providences were continual.
I had great confidence in Mother Granger. I concealed from her none of my sins nor of my troubles. I would not have done the least thing without telling it to her. I practised no austerities but those she permitted me. It was only my interior dispositions I could not tell, because I knew not how to explain them, being very ignorant of these things from never having read or heard of them. My confessor and my husband forbade me anew to see her. It was almost impossible for me to obey, because I had very great crosses, and sometimes some little expression escaped me through infidelity, when nature was so sorely oppressed. This little word brought upon me so many crosses, I thought I had committed great faults; in such confusion was I. I carried within me a continual condemnation of myself, so that I regarded my crosses as defects, and believed I brought them on myself. I knew not how to unravel all this, nor how to remedy it; for oftentimes an involuntary forgetfulness gave rise to dissatisfaction of several weeks. I made a pretext of going to see my father, and I ran to Mother Granger; but as soon as this was discovered there were crosses that I cannot express, for it would be difficult to tell the excess to which their anger against me proceeded. The difficulty of writing to her was not less, for, as I had an extreme horror of lies, I forbade the lackeys lying; and when they were met they were asked where they went, whether they did not carry letters. My mother-in-law took up her position in a little porch, so that none could go out of the house without her seeing them, and their passing near her. She used to ask them where they went, and what they were carrying. It had to be told her, and when she knew I had written to Mother Granger, there was a terrible commotion. Sometimes when going on foot to the Benedictines, I had shoes brought, that it might not be seen where I had been, for it was far; but all my precautions were useless, for I dared not go alone, and those who followed me had orders to tell wherever I went. If they failed in it, they were punished or sent away.
They constantly spoke evil to me of this holy woman, whom in their hearts they esteemed; but God willed I should be in continual trouble and contradiction, for as I loved her much, I could not hinder myself from defending and speaking well of her; and this threw them into such anger, they watched still more closely to hinder me from going to see her. I, however, did all I could to please them. It was my constant study, without being able to succeed in it, and as I believed devotion consisted in pleasing them, I was in despair and angry with myself for all the torment they caused me, thinking it was my fault. One of the greatest troubles is to believe a thing to be a matter of duty, and to labour incessantly to do it, without, however, being able to succeed. It is the course of guidance you have observed with me, O my God, so long as I was keeping house. I sometimes complained of it to Mother Granger, who said to me, “How should you content them, since for more than twenty years I am doing what I can for that purpose without being able to succeed?” for as my mother-in-law had two daughters in her convent, she found fault with everything.
The cross I felt most was to see my son revolt against me, whom they inspired with such a scorn for me, I could not see him without dying of grief. When I was in my room with any of my friends, he was sent to listen to what I said; and as the child saw it pleased them, he invented a hundred things to go and tell them. What caused me the most pain was the loss of this child, with whom I had taken extreme trouble. If I surprised him in a lie, which often happened, I dared not reprove him. He told me, “My grandmother says you have been a greater liar than I.” I answered him, “It is because I have been so I better know the odiousness of this vice and the difficulty of freeing one’s self from it; and it is for this very reason that I will not suffer it in you.” He used to say very offensive things to me, and, because he observed the deference I had for his grandmother and his father, when in their absence I wished to reprove him for anything, he reproached me that I wanted to play the mistress because they were not there. They approved all this in the child, so that it strengthened him in his evil dispositions. One day this child went to see my father, and indiscreetly wished to speak of me to my father, as he used to his grandmother. My father was moved to tears, and came to the house to beg they would punish him; but nothing was done, though they promised my father. I had not the strength to chastise him. Similar scenes often happened, and as the child grew bigger, and there was every probability his father would not live. I feared the consequences of so bad an education. I told it to Mother Granger, and she consoled me, and said that, as I could not remedy it, I must suffer it and surrender all to God; that this child would be my cross.
Another of my troubles was that I could not see my attention to my husband was pleasing to him. I knew well I displeased him when I was not there; but when I was he never showed any sign that he was pleased at it, nor at what I did. On the contrary, he had nothing but repugnance for everything that came from me. I sometimes trembled when I approached him, for I well knew I should do nothing to his taste; and if I did not come near him, he complained of it. He was so disgusted with broths, he could not look at them, and those who brought them to him were ill received. Neither my mother- in-law nor any of the servants was willing to bring them, for fear of suffering from his vexation. I was the only one who did not refuse. I used to go and carry them to him, and let hie anger exhaust itself; then I endeavoured pleasantly to induce him to take them, and when he got more angry, I patiently waited; then I said to him, “I prefer being scolded many times in the day to doing you harm by not bringing you what is necessary for you.” Sometimes he took them; at other times he pushed them away; but, as he saw my perseverance, he was often constrained to take them. When he was in good humour, and I brought him something that would have been agreeable, my mother-in-law took it out of my hands in order to carry it to him; and as he thought I did not attend to these things, he was annoyed with me, and gave his mother great thanks. Love hindered me from saying anything, and I suffered all in silence. I used an my efforts to win my mother-in-law, through my attentions, my presence, my services; yet I was not clever enough to succeed. O my God, how wearisome without you would be a life like that! This conduct I have just mentioned has always continued, with the exception of some very short intervals, which served only to make things harder and more felt by me.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 